Cultural MindFuck
by Icefrosty
Summary: A series of short stories depicting various scenarios in which cultural facts of the APH countries are revealed!
1. Chapter 1

**Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 1: America and British Chips.**

If anything could be more butt-numbingly British, it's going to your local English fish-n-chips shop. Thus, it's no surprise England takes the unwitting America to one one evening, if only to avoid the inevitable scenario of being carried home by your former charge after a night at the old pub binge-drinking the night away and raving about ponies.

They sit down on the awkwardly high stools set around the long tables lining the small place with the portion of fries they ordered.

Just as England is about to tuck in, he notices America staring with a mixture of awe and confusion at the soft, fat potato wedges on the table before him.

England stares at him questioningly.

"What? They're just chips," he says, not able to figure out for the life of him why the things were freaking the young nation out.

America opens his mouth like a surprised fish catching his wife in bed with his neighbor, Mr. Salmon.

"Dude..." he whispers, picking one squishy chip up with his fingers and staring at it like it was the Holy Grail. "Dude...these...these things're frickin' HUGE! Oh my GAWD they're just like your _penis!"_

England is struck dumb. Both by the unexpected mention of his penis that America seemed to have extensive and violating knowledge about, and also the fact that America has just shouted it out for all the other disturbed customers in the shop.

He's not sure whether to choke the man-child with the big fat portion of chips liked to his so-called Big Ben, or run out of the place and go into hiding for a few years until he was sure everyone had completely forgotten the whole thing.

He makes do with the choking. Then he hauls arse out of there.

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><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>I don't know about in other countries, but British fish-n-chips shops are home to some of the biggest and soggiest chips known to man. They also like to drown them in vinegar...eww...<em>

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**Cultural Mind-Fuck 2: Germany and the Incident with English Beer in the Night-time.**

If anything could be more butt-numbingly British, it's going to your local English pub of an evening. Thus, it's no surprise England takes the unwitting Germany to one one night, if only to avoid the inevitable scenario of being the only one stark raving drunk at the end of it, safe with the knowledge that his companion would be in the exact same state.

They sit down on their stools by the bar counter, and order two large beers. A few seconds later, two large, golden glasses of alcohol just waiting to be downed and replaced by ten or so more sit in front of them.

Just as England is about to take his first sip, he notices Germany staring at his own glass with a mixture of horror and revulsion, like he'd just been given a dead baby.

"What? It's just beer," the Brit says, not able to figure out for the life of him why the thing is freaking the blonde nation out. The glass itself is perfectly clean and there is nothing dodgy floating in its contents. Yes, there is a total lack of the foaming white froth that accompanied German beer, but...

_Oh._

Then the German gets angry, and glares ferociously at the barman with a look that could kill a puppy.

"I ORDERED **BEER, **NOT ****APFLE JUICE****!" he roars, terrifying the barman so much the man dives under the table and cowers there.

England is struck dumb. Both by the fact that Germany takes a lack of froth on beer so personally, and that every soul in the whole pub got to know about it.

He's not sure whether to choke the stingy bastard by tying him to the bar counter and sticking a funnel down his throat and pump alcohol down it from one of the nearby barrels, or run out of the place and go into hiding for a few years until he was sure everyone had completely forgotten the whole thing.

He makes do with the choking. Then he hauls arse out of there.

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><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>TRUE STORY...SORT OF! My great uncle from Germany did this once on a visit to England. He meant it as a joke, though-and he didn't go crazy like Germany either XD<em>

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**Cultural Mindfuck 3: Crossdressing**** gone horribly wrong.**

Japan is on a visit to Siena (Italy) with Italy himself, and is standing outside the door of the Italian's house, waiting patiently for his guide to step out so they can go on a relaxed evening stroll, as is done in abundance in the Latin regions in particular.

He hears footsteps and looks to the threshold to greet his friend.

"Oh, Italy-kun, you're-"

He doesn't finish. He can't. No-one, nation or otherwise, would be able to say anything immediately after what Japan was forced to see.

Italy. In a frilly pink dress. With high-heels. And lipstick. And a..._thong..._

Japan gapes, all restraint flung clean out the window, despite them both being out in the open. You get what I mean.

Italy beams, oblivious as always.

"Vee, what's wrong, Japan?" he chirrups, snapping the other out of his shock.

"O-oh...I...well...I'm a bit...surprised...by your get-up..." he manages, blushing like England did when France hosted his own Olympic Games. "What made you choose...this...?"

Italy giggles.

"Oh, I got an old craving, I dunno!" he sing-songs, without any shame or compulsion. "I used to do this all the time when I was a kid!"

With that, the excited boy-girl links his arm with a disturbed Japan's, and they proceed to frolic down the street together, the black-haired nation dying a little inside with every humiliating and all-too-public step.

"Uh...Italy-kun..." Japan murmurs, too flustered to say anything else.

"Ve! Just call me 'Mary' tonight, Japan!" the Italian says loudly.

Suddenly, both young men are seized by Italian police, Italy is bound in handcuffs, and is dragged away before Japan can process what's happening.

"You are coming with us, you dirty whore!" one growls, as Italy wails and Japan runs as fast as his rheumatic legs can carry him, shouting that it's all a misunderstanding and if they would please release his dumb, sexually-confused friend.

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><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>It is illegal to be a prostitute in Siena, Italy, if your name is Mary.<em>

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**Cultural Mind-Fuck 4: Spain and Grapes.**

It is New Years Eve, and Romano wanders through Spain's beloved orchard with the intention of grabbing a few tomatoes to give as a New Years present, so as to save money (cheap bastard, but then times are hard for him nowadays, money-wise).

He suddenly hears the sound of a load of Spaniards nomming on something. Romano knows this sound all too well.

Going in the direction of the sound, he eventually finds Spain among his friends chowing down bunch after bunch of grapes like heroin addicts, not even bothering to chew-just cramming as many as they can down their gullets.

Naturally, Romano freaks out.

"WHAT THE FUCK, IS THIS A SUICIDE MISSION?" he screams, bursting into the group and hitting Spain on the back to dislodge the saliva-covered grapes. Spain spits them out and coughs.

A timer sitting on a nearby dirt-mound beeps. They look at it. 12:00pm, it reads.

Spain moans angrily.

"Awww, Romanoooo, I was winning, damnit!" he whines, like a spoilt child, pouting and folding his arms while his friends jeer.

Romano is outraged.

"Oh SORRY for giving a fuck! Next time you wanna choke on your damn grapes, be my guest! Just be prepared for me to chuck tomatoes at your coffin at your funeral, ya bastard!" he spits, storming off in a huff.

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><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>During New years, in Spain, at 12:00, Spaniards will try to eat 12 grapes before the clock sops chiming. I made them have 12 BUNCHES of grapes instead, because...it's funnier XD<em>

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**Cultural Mind-Fuck 5: You're mean, China...**

One day, China surprises Japan by inviting him to his favourite restaurant near his house, Ming's Gok Wan. Sitting together at the table ordering their starters, China leans over and points at something on Japan's menu.

"I recommend this, aru!" he says, smiling gleefully. Japan looks, and reads 'Bird's Nest Soup'.

"Ah, this looks verry interesting," Japan remarks, nodding, putting his menu down. "Yes, I sharr have this."

China grins.

"Great, it is one of my favourite soups, aru! I will have some duck, myself."

A few minutes later, their dishes arrive.

They both tuck in, Japan sipping his soup tentatively, before smiling in a way that people do when they are trying out something they thought they wouldn't like, but are pleasantly surprised when proved wrong.

"Ah, this is very dericious!" he says, smiling.

China laughs.

"Of course, aru! I chose it for you, didn't I?" he says, glowing in shameless egotism.

Japan chuckles, wiping his mouth a bit.

"You did."

Suddenly, China's eyes gleam mischeviously.

"Japan, do you know the main ingrediant used in your soup?" he asks innocently. Japan stares, clueless.

"No, I'm afraid I have no idea," the mild Japanese man replies, blinking.

China smiles, and leans over the table again, beckoning Japan nearer. The other nation dutifully leans forward and cocks his head so the Chinese man can whisper into his ear.

Japan pales, his face an expression of sheer horror. He instantly jumps out of his chair and bolts straight into the nearby toilet with his hand over his mouth.

Violet retching can be clearly heard as China chortles hysterically in his seat.

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><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>The active ingredient in Chinese Bird's Nest Soup is saliva.<em>

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**Cultural Mind-Fuck 5: Gluttonous Americans.**

England is invited to America's house, as an apology on the latter's part for the embarrassing episode in the fish-n-chips bar. Walking down the path to America's grand, overly-lavish house one fine spring lunch-time, he approaches and knocks twice on the front door.

Surprisingly, he finds it slightly ajar, and presently opens it fully to call out to his young host.

Before the Brit can even open his mouth to do so, a massive avalanche of takeaway pizza slams into him with overwhelming force, knocking him off his feet and sending him tumbling down the path, overwhelmed by a sea of the stuff. Almost suffocated, he emerges from the vast pile, and finds himself half-way down from whence he had came, with a long stretch of pizza following up right into the hallway.

Too stunned to say anything, England simply stares as America peeps apologetically at him from the treshold.

"Whoops, sorry dude!" he calls. "The pizza guy came early this mornin' and I forgot to clear it all out before you arrived! My bad!"

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><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>Every day, Americans eat an estimated 18 acres of pizza.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 1: Shadows on the Moon.**

China loved his midnight strolls, almost as much as he loved the freakish humanoid Hello Kitty cosplayer Shinatty-chan—that it to say, platonically, not physically. At least, his peers hoped not. The images that would inevitably spring to their minds would be the stuff of nightmares, and they just didn't need it.

We're detracting from the main point. China, loving his midnight strolls (platonically), was now happily engage—I mean, participating in one at this moment. Wandering through his trimmed leafy gardens, soft breeze wafting through the swaying bamboo shoots, and moonshine bathing the expanse in a kind of ethereal glow, the four-thousand-year-old fogie-nation sighed contentedly.

Looking up at the moon, huge and a perfect sphere of white, China reminisced of the time when Japan lived at his house, and had remarked that he saw a rabbit pounding mochi on its surface. He snorted. As if! It was so totally blending herbs on that thing!

Suddenly, creeping shadows of cloud obscured the moon's perfection, and, as China watched in horror, slowly formed a face. Big, googly eyes, a croaking mouth and pudgy cheeks.

He could have sworn he heard a 'ribbit!'

China turned on his heel and burst through the garden screaming and shouting his Asian head off. A very startled Japan, who had come for a rare visit to his old home, ran out from his bedroom to confront his hysterical teacher.

"What? What is happening? Is it Russia?" Japan cried, as China ran up to him babbling nonsense and gesturing wildly at the sky.

At a loss of how to calm him down, Japan reached for his samurai sword and whacked China round the face with it (sheathed, of course, he's not a monster!).

China grabbed his face and glared in outrage.

"How DARE you strike me with that, aru? I ought to give your ass a spanking!" he yelled, smacking the sword away.

Japan was completely unfazed.

"No matter, what are you screaming about?"

China became frightened again, and pointed a trembling sleeve-covered finger up at the object of his terror.

Japan looked.

"It's a frog! It's a frog on the moon!" China wailed. "It's hideous! It's going to kill me!"

Japan stared at China pityingly.

"But...all I see is cloud..." he said, not quite sure what to make of all this.

But China would not be persuaded otherwise. He was convinced he was seeing a frog's face on the moon, and would adamant it had evil intentions.

Japan turned away from the gibbering, gesticulating China and made his way back into the house and to the main phone, dialling quickly.

"Herro? Is this Shanghai's Old People's Home, Home for Wrinkly Farts Long Since Departed from Reality?" Japan said. "Yes, I'd like to administer a new resident into your facirity..."

China had followed his former charge into the room.

"WHAT THE FUCK, ARU?" he screamed, and, throwing himself forwards, snatched the phone away and slammed it back down onto its main body.

"I am NOT old, and I am NOT insane, aru!" he hissed. "Fine, if you won't believe me—we will never speak of this again, and we will carry on our lives as normal, understand?"

And that's exactly what they did. Although Japan's eyes were never far away from the direction of the phone whenever he met China again.

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>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>In China, the dark shadows forming a face on the moon are seen as "the toad in the moon," not "the man in the moon".<em>

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><strong>Cultural Mind-fuck, Scene 2: Turkey and Bad Bread.<strong>

Turkey adored his market-places, almost as much as he adores himself. Once again, platonically speaking. Strutting through the crowed street, taking in the colourful hustle and bustle, the unquenchable liveliness of his people, and the sharp, tangy aromas wafting through the warm morning air. Sighing contentedly, Turkey muses on how amazing he is.

Suddenly, his unheeding foot treds upon something soft.

He stops in his tracks and looks down.

Curiosity amounts to horror as he sees he has stepped on an abandoned bit of bread.

Turkey screams blue murder and, like his Oriental counterpart, charges down the street in hysterics, ploughing through everyone in his path like an Arabian tank, people and animals bouncing off him left to right, screaming all the way. He came across Greece on the way to his house, and, rather than insult him as he usually would, Turkey just kept on running.

At last at his house, Turkey burst inside without bothering to lock the door, threw himself into his living room and began to empty his cupboards of all its contents. Finding his desired needs, he plopped down onto the floor and began frantically chanting in Turkish while pouring countless bottles of ointment over himself.

Greece, having followed the stubble-chinned Turk, because nothing was more exhilarating than seeing the big bag wolf wailing, entered his foe's house and found him, a sorry wreck, on the floor, drenched in whatever overpowering substances he'd doused himself in, and still chanting.

"What on earth are you doing?" he asked, readying his Iphone and holding the camera up to capture the whole thing.

"Cleansing myself!" the distressed Turk replied, applying more ointment.

"Of what?" Greece pursued, smiling as he recorded the whole event, while at the same time feeding the footage to the phones of his fellow nations.

"Of evil spirits!"

"Why?"

"I stepped on some bread!" Turkey wailed, as if it was a death sentence.

Greece couldn't control himself. Rather than go to the phone and ring up the madhouse, he collapsed laughing at the threshold.

Turkey turned around, outraged, and saw what he had done. Seizing his sword, he chased the still-laughing Greece out of his house and down the street, drenched and in desperate need of dignity—that which he was shamefully squandering with every step.

"YOU BASTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARD!"

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>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>The Turks consider it considered unlucky to step on a piece of bread.<em>

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 3: England's surprise!<strong>

England rarely gives his elder brother the honour of being in the former-pirate's presence. He can't stand the ginger freckled sod for more than five minutes at a time. But here he was, standing before a giant factory he'd never knew existed in Ireland before. The beer-bellied git had invited England to come and see something he thought he'd like.

That was all the information he needed to know he wouldn't like it at all, but he'd rather die than admit it and hide away from the challenge.

So, here he was. Staring up at the back of the giant building, more confused than ever.

"Top 'o the mornin', ya worthless piece'a shite!" a rough, heavy-accented voice greets behind him. England turns and grimaces at the sight of his pot-bellied, ginger-haired elder brother, who gladly returns the expression.

"Hello, you alcoholic ginger nut!" England replies, smirking nastily.

Ireland's face turns red.

"FECK YEH, I'M NOT AN ALCOHOLIC AN' AT LEAST MY HAIR AIN'T THE COLOUR OF HORSE'S PUKE!" he bellows.

"DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT HORSE SICK LOOKS LIKE?" England retorts.

Ireland puffed up.

"...NO, BUT YOU GET MY POINT!"

"NO, I DON'T, BECAUSE A POINT WITHOUT BASIS ISN'T A POINT AT ALL!" England shouts smugly.

"WHY DID YOU SHOUT THAT PART?" Ireland roars, despite the fact that his own question is unnecessarily loud as well.

"UM...I DON'T KNOW!" England yells back, stumped.

"SHOULD WE STOP?"

"YES, IT IS GETTING RATHER AWKWARD!"

So they calm down and speak normally.

"So, what do I have the pleasure of viewing today?" England questions, each syllable drenched in sarcasm. "As I recall, your last invitation to see your enormous hairy cock was quite an experience."

Ireland flushes.

"I was drunk at the time!" he mutters furiously.

"You're _always_ drunk, so that's no excuse!" England shoots back.

Ireland rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Fine. Just look at it."

"I've been looking at it for the past half hour!" England complains, frowning. "What's so special about it?"

"Oh!" Ireland gasped, as if only now noticing his error. "We're at the feckin' back! C'mon, we have to go round—THEN you'll see!"

Grabbing a protesting England, Ireland drags him around to the front of the huge building, and flings his arm up at the sign emblazoned above the giant doors:

_FAIRY INVESTIGATION SOCIETY HQ._

England gapes.

"Oh my God...I LOVE YOU, IRELAND!" he shouts, glomping the unprepared Irishman. "I KNEW I WASN'T CRAZY! FAIRIES DO EXIST!"

"Yeh God damn right they do!" Ireland grunts, shoving his ecstatic younger brother off him "'n get off me, ya little worm!"

England jumps up, joy unabashed, and drags a disturbed and angry Ireland away, whistling cheerfully.

"COME ON, WE'RE GONNA GET SMASHED TONIGHT!"

"WHAT THE FECK IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

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>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>Dublin is home of the Fairy Investigation Society. No kidding, look it up!<em>

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 4: For God's sake, wash your car next time, Lithuania!<strong>

Lithuania drives happily down one of Russia's many snow-covered roads, glad to be out of that maniac's house and away. He'd visited the large nation to bestow birthday greetings, as Russia had previously done the same for him, although his sudden arrival at Lithuania's doorstep was far from appreciated.

Driving along, the brown-haired young man considers pulling over to a petrol station to wash his car, which, admittedly, is filthy. But he is nearly over the border and almost half-way home. He figures the carwash can wait a bit. He never feels safe dawdling in Russia's land.  
>Suddenly, an ominous, croaking chant shivers through the wind.<p>

_"Kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol..."_

Lithuania jumped, and then laughs nervously. He was imagining things. Checking his mirrors and the back of his car, he sees Russia was nowhere to be found.

Jeez, he needed a holiday...

_"Kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol kol...!"_

Lithuania started and a gnawing fear ate away at him. Looking wildly around the largely deserted street, he saw nothing but grey and snow on the road ahead.

What was going on?

Suddenly, a face dropped down from above and looked at him. It was Russia, beaming. He'd been on the roof of his car the whole time.

Lithuania screamed and slammed on the brakes, halting the car so suddenly it threw Russia forwards with a surprised yelp, bouncing off the bonnet and falling onto the road.

Fighting the urge to just run the psycho over, Lithuania gets out and ran over to the large nation, who he finds has picked himself up and is brushing himself off, still smiling.

"A-are you alright?" the brown-haired young man asks.

Russia regards him.

"Oh, I am fine, da!" he replies. "I just came over here to—!"

"To kill me?" Lithuania stammers, shaking.

"No, to—!"

"To kill me and throw my corpse to the Siberian wolves?"

"No, to—!"

"To rip me apart and devour my entrails you crazy, bloodthirsty Anti-Chri—?"

"LISTEN TO ME!" Russia roars, frightening the poor Lithuania half to death. Then Russia is smiling again. "I just followed you to tell you that—"

Too late. Burly Russian police in their long dark overcoats stomps into view and seizes the unwitting Lithuania, cuffing him and dragging him away.

"I came to tell you to wash your car!" Russia calls after him. "Oh well, bye-bye!"

"Why? Why are they arresting me?" Lithuania wails.

"Oh, you will find out soon, da!" Russia replies, waving. "At least this way we will see a lot more of each other—I look forward to it! Fufufufu...!"

"Noooooooooooooooooooooo!"

"_KOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOL...!"_

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>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>It is a criminal offence to drive around in a dirty car in Russia.<em>

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 5: Much Ado About Mayonnaise.<strong>

England and America meet the Netherlands (or Holland, as he was popularly known as, much to the Dutch man's chagrin). It is your typical Dutch restaurant, and all three sit in the warm and lively establishment while trying not to inhale too much of the drug fumes floating in the air.

Their meals arrive. Holland, as he will be so called from now on because I'm lazy, tucked in to a plate of sausage, French fries and a side of salad.

England pipes up.

"You want ketchup with that?" he asks, reaching for the sauce in question.

Holland shakes his head.

"Nah, I got this," he says, reaching for the white bottle next to the ketchup.

Out squeeze the mayonnaise onto the Frenchy fries, while his companions watched in shock.

England is the first to speak.

"You...put _mayonnaiseon your chips?" _he manages, aghast_._

"You don't use ketchup at all?" America puts in, equally astounded.

Holland puffs up his chest with pride.

"Nope! Always mayonnaise!"

"That's bloody heresy!" England cries. "Ketchup is the only sauce that should regularly go with chips!"

"Yeah, mayonnaise is an insult to chips everywhere!" America adds.

"Hey, I can put whatever I like with my chips!" Holland protests, wielding the mayonnaise bottle in his hand to emphasise his point.

"Like hell! KETCHUP is the only one for chips!" America shouts, "That and BBQ sauce!"

"Hang on!" England blurts, staring at America. "BBQ sauce? Don't insult me, boy; I didn't bring you up on that crap!"

"Yeah, mayonnaise beats them all hands down and blindfolded!" Holland reiterates, standing up and pointing at each one of them with the mayonnaise.

"Wanna bet?" America yells, grabbing bottle of BBQ sauce, and holding it to England's head. "Come on, I'll take you both on!"

England seizes the ketchup and did the same.

"BRING IT, FUCKER!"

"FOOOOOOD FIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!"

With America's rebel yell, all three nations begin squirting furiously at each other and chucking various pieces of furniture, occupied or otherwise, in front of them to block the oncoming streams of sauce, screaming and shouting. In seconds, the entire restaurant is a war zone, pandemonium erupting as the terrified Dutch customers and staff flee the restaurant as the three men battle it out with bottles of sauce and seasoning, throwing chairs and wreaking havoc.

And to add insult to injury, both England and America had to pay a hefty sum of damage money to a smug Holland at the end of it all, as well as endure a snide 'Told ya mayonnaise rules!".

AUTHOR'S NOTE: _The Dutch in general prefer mayonnaise on their French fries._


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTE: Thanks so much for the reviews and encouragement from the following: Yuki-Rin, silver Alida, Gilly B, Consenirmollo, raewhit, Oxenstierna D. Thanks guys! And without further ado...here's the next instalment of funny yet informative shorts! :D**

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><p><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 1: Here comes the...Bride...?<strong>

Finland is positively ecstatic. Today he is getting married to the one true love of his life; Sweden, the man of terrifying glares and few words. This taken into account, it was a miracle that the glasses-wearing Nordic was the one to propose, and even more so that the proposal itself was a full and coherent sentence.

All that aside, everything that had happened since came down to this one momentous and joyful event. Squealing, Finland buttoned his smart black waist-jacket and obligatory rose pinned on the left side, and skipped out of his house and into the waiting limo, occupied by the remaining Nordics, all dressed up and ready to party hard after the whole thing was over.

An hour later, the ceremony had begun. Taking place in a huge and glorious church with the only priest willing to marry the two lovers together—none other than Poland himself—and every guest already seated, Finland standing at the front, back-turned and dying with excitement. The Nordics, naturally, occupied the front seats on the left, with the Germanics directly opposite on the right. Behind were the Europeans and Asians, the latter group cosplaying as ABBA members, and who technically shouldn't have been there, as they had not even been aware the marriage was taking place that day, but Sealand had managed to drop them a line via the internet, reaching Korea first, and subsequently passed along. So, in the end, they came.

All at once, the organ begins to play a catchy rendition of 'Here Comes the Bride'. All stand and turn to view the arrival of the all-too-male bride. Sealand jumps on England's shoulders to take a better look, as does Korea with China, for no other reason apart from the fact that he can knowing that on this occasion he will not be beaten to a bloody pulp.

Sweden turns the corner and begins to walk down the aisle. Everyone stares with a mixture of shock, horror, and downright amusement. Norway gets his phone out to record the hilarity while shoving a fist in his own mouth to stop himself from collapsing into hysterics.

Sweden. In a dress. A dress so poofy and silky and girly as to destroy any sliver of male pride and dignity that might have still clung on through his deadpan expression. The pink roses lining the veil are the last straw.

The Germanics retch mentally, feeling emasculated being in the presence of the once manly Nordic, Prussia emulating Norway by getting out his own phone and filming gleefully. The Nordics squirm with a mixture of pride and shame. The Asians get their cameras out in full view of everyone and start clicking furiously. Poland is brimming with triumph, seeing this as one step forward for gay rights. Sealand is learning a lot today.

Finland hears the commotion and turns to see the source of it. His mouth drops open. They hadn't told him about this. He'd assume Sweden would be wearing the standard tuxedo...What had happened in that one hour before the service?

Something seems to be troubling Sweden, but it's not the attention. Suddenly, he stops in his tracks, grimacing.

"What's wrong, Su-san?" Finland asks, worried that his poker-faced lover was having second thoughts.

"Mn'uffin," the Nordic mumbles. "'S'just...m'feet...hurt..."

"Really? Take them off for a sec, then."

Sweden does so, and everyone leans over to see the source of the man's discomfort. Sealand jumps on England's head

Money. In the shoes.

Everyone suddenly dives for the shoes and the ensuring scramble is brutal and angry. Economic crisis does strange and terrible things to nations.

Prussia doubles over in laughing fits, still managing to hold the camera phone steady.

"BRUDER, VHY AREN'T YOU HELPING?" Germany shouts over the ensuing melee.

"I'M TOO AWESOME FOR MONEY, KESESESESESESEEEE!" was the reply, which carefully omitted the fact that Prussia had no economy to worry about.

It took another hour to calm everyone down and carry on the ceremony, the Asians doing bad renditions of ABBA songs the whole way through.

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>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>Gold and silver coins are placed inside a bride's wedding shoes in Sweden. Obviously, the brides are not supposed to wear them like this DURING THE CEREMONY...I hope...<em>

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 2: A Disappointing Christmas.<strong>

It's Christmas Day, and Russia allowed the Baltic States to celebrate the holiday on December 25th,, but providing Russia was allowed to attend as well. Thus they had their regular Christmas dinner on the day, with Russia sitting at its head, smiling and thoroughly enjoying himself, even if his peers weren't. Latvia had offered to do the main meal this time, if only to avoid sitting next to Russia for the whole evening. Estonia and Lithuania trembled in anticipation. Everything depended on Latvia making this meal the best the psychopathic man-child had ever had.

The pressure was intense.

Half an hour later, Latvia emerges trembling from the kitchen, somehow managing to balance four plates on either arm while dishing them out individually.

"I...I made a traditional Latvian Christmas Day meal for you, Mr. Russia!" he stammers, eyeing the door so as to make a quick get-a-way.

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Russia replies, smiling in a way that he always did when he beat someone to death.

The other two Baltics stare helplessly at Latvia with expressions that said: "DON'T BLOW THIS!"

Latvia hurriedly takes his seat. All is silent as the others look at their plates , Russia in confusion, the Baltics in horror.

Soup. Latvia made SOUP!

"Wow," Russia says finally. "This is unusual. I will try it."

And he does.

Every living thing in the room right down to the dust-mites in the corner of the room held their breath.

Russia takes a spoonful, looks up at the ceiling as if considering something. Then he smiles.

"This is great, Latvia."

The trembling trio's faces lit up with exultation.

"I will put off strangling you all till tomorrow," the large nation finished, taking another spoonful.

The Baltics' wither.

"...Thank you, sir..."

*

AUTHOR'S NOTE: _A traditional Christmas Day meal in Latvia consists of cooked brown peas with pork sauce and cabbage._

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 3: Goddamnit, America!<strong>

England is on yet another visit to America's house as yet another gesture on the loud nation's part for the last fiasco with the mass of pizza and subsequent injuries England sustained in the resulting avalanche.

Sitting in the corner in his armchair that evening and reading _The Daily Mail_, because he was too snobbish to bother to read American newspapers, England awaits America's return from the nightclub.

Suddenly the front door slams open and America bolts inside, down the hallway and into the living-room, sitting across from England with an all too stiff and suspicious-looking posture.

England stares at him.

"...Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine!" is the all-too-quick response. America is a terrible liar by nature. His eyes shift everywhere apart from England's face.

"Did something happen?"

"No, no! Everything's dandy!" A short pause. "Might be some problems later, but, uh...we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

A few minutes later, there is a knock on the door.

England goes to get it, dragging America with him.

He opens the door, and sees two policemen standing there.

"Again, sonny?" says one, looking right past England and at America.

"Uh-huh," the sheepish America mumbles.

"Same gig?"

"Yeah..."

"Hang on, hang ON!" England yells furiously. "Would someone mind telling me what the bloody hell is going on here?"

Too late, the policemen are already cuffing America and leading him away.

England stares, agape. They are all acting as if this is perfectly normal!

"Wha...wha...wha...?" he splutters, pointing dumbly as America is led to the police car.

America looks round, laughing.

"Aw, don't worry dude! This happens all the time!"

He gets into the vehicle, and they drive off, leaving England stunned and hopelessly confused.

Giving up, he goes back into the house and continues reading his newspaper.

*  
>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>Legal experts say that every year, about 12% of the U.S. population is arrested.<em>  
>.<p>

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**Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 4: Watch the Birdie!**

England is strolling through the woods near his home one leafy autumn afternoon, taking in the crisp air and calming smell of nature...whatever that is.

A loud cawing makes him look up.

A magpie, all on its own, on a high branch.

England starts and calls:

"Morning, Mr. Magpie!"

The bird looks down at him from its great height.

"Morning, England!"

England lurches back with a yell, and flees screaming "OH MY GOD, AAAAH, IT SPOKE, OH GOD, AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

Apparently, in England's logic, it's perfectly normal to hear invisible, magical creatures chatting to you, but not real ones.

It's no surprise the magpie is confused.

*

AUTHOR'S NOTE: _'Morning Mr. Magpie'; Often said by people in the UK to counteract the bad luck brought by the sighting of a single magpie._

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 5: Look after yourself more, Poland...<strong>

Lithuania is on one of his many visits to Poland's house, and finds him in the back garden holding something weird over his head.

Moving closer, Lithuania is horrified to see that, whatever it is, Poland was determined to put in down his throat.

Dropping his bags, he races forwards and, like Romano with Spain before him, throws himself at the gender-confused Pole, knocking them both to the ground, the weird branch-like thing flying out of his hand and into the bushes.

"Hey, like, what's wrong with you, man?" Poland cries indignantly, pouting.

"What's wrong with YOU?" Lithuania pants, picking himself and the other up. "You were trying to kill yourself!"

Poland stares at him like he's finally gone off the deep end as his newly-created internet poll had suggested.

"I was _trying_ to give myself good health!"

Lithuania also stares, unable to believe what he's hearing.

"By _killing yourself_?" he splutters. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Man, the real question is, have YOU?"

They go on arguing for the remainder of Lithuania's visit, which is about a fortnight. Poland will never let up, even when you yourself have.

*

AUTHOR'S NOTE: _According to beliefs in Poland, swallowing a willow catkin from a branch consecrated by a priest would bring good health._

Here is what a willow catkin branch looks like: .com/images/spring_fairies/willow-catkin_flower_  
>.<p>

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**Cultural Mind-Fuck EXTRA! Courtesy of raewit. Cheers!**

Germany was on a visit to Spain's house. There a lot of visits going on recently, aren't there? Anyway, Germany and Italy were on their way to a local restaurant, when they see something extraordinarily weird.

A parade of grown men parading down the street dressed as Disney characters. And if that wasn't disturbing enough...

"Gott in Himmel [God in Heaven]! Is zhat Romano dressed as Happy the dwarf from Snow White?" he spluttered, pointing wildly to emphasise his horror.

Italy stared, and beamed.

"Yup! That's him!"

"HOW CAN YOU BE SO CALM ABOUT THIS?" Germany shrieked in a hilariously high pitch. "IF MY OLDER BROTHER DID THIS TO ME I WOULD DIE OF SHAME, COME BACK TO LIFE, BEAT HIM TO A PULP AND FEED HIM TO MY DOGS!"

Italy giggled.

"I'm just happy nii-chan's loosened up enough to do something like this! Hey, I know, let's go talk to him!"

"NEIN, NEIN, NEIN, NEIN, NEIN, NEIN, NEI—ACK!" Germany, despite his protests, was unable to resist the overwhelming power of Italy's grip as he dragged the blonde nation across the street and over to where Romano, in all his grumpy, dwarfish self, was walking.

Italy waved and caught his older brother's attention.

"Hi, nii-chan!"

"What the fuck are you doing here, asshole? And with HIM, too!" Romano barked, flushing red.

"In my defence, your crazy younger brother dragged me here against my vill," Germany put in, glaring angrily at Italy. "Did you know he was this strong?"

Romano blinked, surprised at the last part, and Germany raised his captured arm up to demonstrate his point.

"Huh, that's one for the books..."

"You look so cool, brother!" Italy chirruped, ignoring everything his brother had just said, walking alongside him, and still holding onto a mortally humiliated Germany.

Romano flushed harder.

"Um...well...whatever."

"Say, nii-chan, why the big parade all of a sudden?" Italy asked.

"Uh...well..."

"And are these your friends?"

"Uh, no...well..."

"Then what?" Italy asked, tilting his head and looking confused. Germany, mortification aside, was also curious.

Romano pouted.

"Look, they're my mafia friends, alright? I'm taking Spain's place doing this stupid parade, and we're gonna make a tonne of money! There, happy!" He blurted.

Italy and Germany stared, appalled.

Then Italy smacked his brother round the face with a Bible he seemed to conjure from thin air.

"Nii-chan, how COULD you?" he cried angrily, seizing the stunned Romano by the ear and marching off down a side-street with an equally shocked Germany in tow. "You're going to go to church and apologise to God right now!"

"But...but...We need the money, our economy—!"

"Screw the economy, spiritual purity is more important!" Italy interrupted.

Germany tried to add reason to this madness.

"Italy, I think your brother is right to—!"

"HE'S GOING TO PRAY FOR HIS SINS AND THAT'S **FINAL!"**

Elsewhere, Spain was dozing on his pile of tomatoes, oblivious.

After that, Romano never dabbled in organised crime again, and Germany never underestimated the inner demon behind Italy's cheerful, smiling facade.

*  
>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <em>Apparently the Mafia in Spain goes around dressed as characters from childrens' TV shows and get people to pay for a picture with them to fund their cartel. I used Romano and Italy because it was funnier.<em>


	4. Chapter 4

**Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 1: Misunderstanding.**

Place your mind back to before the revolutionary war, to the time when America was chibi and cute and so-not-his-loud-obnoxious-killable-adult-self, and England wasn't a stuck-up silver-spoon-up-his-arse douche. Yes, it was that time.

England and baby America were out in the fields of America's vast home for a morning stroll. The air was cool and pleasant, and England was particularly pleased to discover no sign of murderous baby-eating bulls around to maul his tiny little brother, although America had proved more than capable of killing them with fun.

A few minutes into their walk, America sneezed. England said 'Bless you', the precise origin of the strange phrase completely unknown to him, and they carried on as normal. A few minutes later, America started sneezing some more. England repeated his earlier blessing with several possible connotations, and they carried on as normal. However, another few minutes went by and America just exploded in sneezes.

"Bloody hell, are you catching a cold?" England asks, looking down with surprise. America's absurd strength also meant his immune system was far stronger than most, which was more than he could say for his own.

America sniffled.

"I always do this when we go out walking!" he said, pouting, as if England ought to know. Truthfully, during these occasions England always let his mind wander to more important things, such as tea, the page three girl in _The Sun, and French porn._

"Well pardon me all over the place!" England huffed, folding his arms. "Seems to me you have hay fever. We just happen to be in a field in the middle of a haying season—the pollen is making you sneeze."

"Oh!"

America was pleased that he had learnt something new, but unfortunately this new information would soon just filter out of his brain like grains of rice through a sieve, and be lost in the unfathomable depths of his vacant mind.

They carried on walking.

America sneezed again.

"Abracadabra!" England said, smiling like one does when they believe they've done a good deed.

America jumps and stares up at him in horror.

"What?"

"Abracadabra!" England repeated, offended. "You know the bloody word! I've cursed France often enough!"

"You're trying to curse me, you son of a bitch!"

"AMERICA!" England blurted. "Language!"

"That does it! I'm gonna declare my independence one day and curse YOU!" America vowed, stamping his foot and running away, tripping over some cow dung, and promptly running back to England bawling his eyes out that the stuff stank and got into his mouth.

England smirked evilly.

No-one fucked with magic. Except for him.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: _The magic word "Abracadabra" was originally intended for the specific purpose of curing hay fever._

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 2: Rip-Off.<strong>

England had the honour of trying the country's first public toilet. It was somewhere in the mid-20th century (to be frank, England just got up one morning and decided he couldn't be arsed to care what century it was anymore). Now he just cared about having the privilege to go to the loo in public and show France his penis without being ashamed.

Arriving at the oddly misplaced and small facility in the middle of a park somewhere, he looked round to see if anyone else was puzzled by this thing. Everyone just walked on by as if it was invisible.

Shrugging, England made to open the door, when a notice beside it caught his eye.

ENTRY: TUPPENCE

England's face coloured beetroot with righteous fury. He kicked the door with a yell of rage and stormed of shouting "WANKERS!" at the top of his voice. "WHY THE BLOODY HELL SHOULD I HAVE TO PAY TO SHIT? FUCK OFF, YOU'RE NOT HAVING MY MONEY, MR. TOILET! GO CHOKE ON YOUR OWN FILTH!"

Children passing by tugged at their mother's (who frantically covered their eyes to shield their innocence), and pointed at the raging Englishman, still bellowing "WANKERS!" as he crossed the road and powered down the street ready for an evening of drunken brawling... when evening actually came.

"Oh, it's just one of those filthy homeless vagrants, darling," the mothers explained, glaring after England with disapproval and pouty lips. "You should ignore the likes of them. They're poisoning our society with their drunken ravings and dirty underpants!"

England campaigned furiously for the ban of the money-grabbing machine that was the public toilet, in vain.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: _The cost of the first pay-toilets installed in England was tuppence (two pennies). The guy who invented it (John Nevil Maskelyne) was also a stage magician!_

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 3: Strange Treats...<strong>

Russia and a reluctant Lithuania were out shopping in Siberia one snowy day. This was a regular occurrence, but the regularity of the outing did not make Lithuania any less nervous. Anything could set the Russian off—a longer queue than usual, an item out of stock, the temperature a few points of a degree lower, or simply that his trolley always made him look fat by comparison.

Lining up, Russia spotted something on sale and his eyes lit up with sparkles. Yes. Russian sparkles. All sparkly and Russian. You get the point.

Lithuania turned to look at what his terrifying yet strangely childlike master was so captured by, and was flabbergasted to find they were cream-coloured, rectangular lollipops.

Instantly, he lunged forward like a charging wildebeest and grabbed an armful and dumped it all in the trolley, beaming from ear to ear as he presented them to Lithuania with triumph.

"Milk!" he announced proudly.

"...I'm sorry, sir?" Lithuania murmured timidly, not quite sure if Russia was deliberately fucking with his mind or he was hallucinating again like he had last New Year's Eve, when he believed the barman was a giant baby wolf, and jumped the poor unsuspecting man, and then did things Lithuania would never dare tell Russia he did for fear of the welfare of his nether regions.

"Milk!" the oblivious Russian repeated happily. "Mooo!"

Lithuania was about to say that Russia had officially and totally teetered off the edge and into the abyss, but then bit his tongue. At least Russia was happy. Even if that happiness was caused by the appearance of a batch of cream-coloured lollies he was going to have to melt and store in the fridge just to be on the safe side.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: _People in Siberia often buy milk frozen on a stick._

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 4: Tea Heretic.<strong>

England, for reasons best known to our Creator, invited an equally astonished China round for tea and biscuits (China had repeatedly insisted no scones be served, reminding the Englishman constantly of the six months of chronic diarrhoea and indigestion AND raging migraines he had to suffer through as a result of a tiny taster of the things the last time he was round).

So there they sat. Both men had their cups ready before them next to their plate of assorted biscuits.

England made the first move, reaching for the canister of sugar and proceeding to tip one spoonful, two, three, four, five, six...

"Aiyaah!" China cried, dumbfounded. "Are you going to have any tea with your sugar, aru?"

"Hey, shut up, I have a sweet tooth!" England shot back, putting in his eitgh spoonful of sugar and, satisfied, stirring the sugar-stuffed liquid.

When he had finished, the two nations both brought their cups up to their lips to take the first sip at the same time. But before either of them could do so, China's left hand dove inside his right sleeve and picked out a tiny glass canister of salt.

England watched him with an expression that plainly said: "Oh, _surelynot..."_

Before he could say anything, China had poured the salt into his cup, and was stirring, whistling happily to himself.

England's jaw dropped.

"_SALT?" he spluttered. "You put SALT in your tea?"_

China looked at him like England had asked the stupidest question on the planet.

"Oh course, aru!"

"That's...that's bloody heresy!" the appalled host gasped. "HERESY I SAY!"

China put his tea down and moved to calm the hysterical Brit.

"Calm down, just calm down—!"

"GET AWAY FROM ME YOU FREAK!" England shrieked, jumping out of his seat and seizing his spellbook and magic wand in his shaking hands.

"For the love of—!"

"STAY BACK!" he shouted, terrified,"I HAVE MAGIC AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO USE IT!"

"Just listen—!"

"YOU DON'T SCARE ME! YOU AND YOUR SALT CAN GO TO HELL! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT, TO GO TO HELL?"

"Look, just calm d—!"

"THAT'S WHAT YOU WANT, ISN'T IT? TO SEND ME TO HELL WITH YOUR EVIL, DEMONIC SALT!"

"I SAID CALM DOWN, ARU!" China shrieked, hurling the salt canister and hitting the inconsolable Brit square in the forehead at the speed of light and frying woks.

England, who miraculously stayed conscious, spent the rest of China's visit trying to exorcise himself.

China didn't mind. He just helped himself to England's fridge while he waited.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: _Tibetans, Mongolians, and people in parts of western China put salt in their tea instead of sugar._

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><strong>Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 5: Gotta love the Scots!<strong>

England arrived at his favourite golf course one afternoon, ready to hit some balls (real ones, preferably France's). However, as he emerged over the hill overlooking the course, he was horrified to see Scotland readying to hit his ball on the first hole.

Scotland looked up and saw his outraged little brother staring at him.

He pointed to his left.

"HERE, CAN'T YEH READ?" he shouted: "OBSERVE THE SIGN!"

England looked at the sign the red-head was referring to.

NO LADIES ALLOWED.

England promptly charged down the hill like a rampaging bull and beat the crap out of Scotland with all of his six clubs at once. Anything is possible when magic is on your side!

.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: _Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled "Gentlemen Only...Ladies Forbidden"...and thus the word GOLF entered into the English language. JUST KIDDING! The world 'golf' did originate from Scotland...However, the unsupported idea that the word was formed from an acronym hardly explains how all the alternative spellings came into being. Acronyms are in fact a 20th century innovation and more than half a millennium too late to be the source of the name golf. The real derivation of 'golf' is obscure and the subject of considerable dispute. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Cultural Mind-fuck, Scene 1: Wrong move.**

Denmark was on a much-needed visit to Iceland's house. Drinking like fuck can really wear a man down, and Denmark (with the hairdo agonised over by fans the world over) was no exception. Having been invited to Iceland's fanciest restaurant, he now sat before a steaming full course meal ready to shovel down his throat like a murderer shovels dirt into a pit concealing a newly-killed victim before the police arrived. Was that a weird example? Yes, yes it was.

Anyway, he tucked in, and shovelled every last crumb and drop. He even licked the plates and scooped the last drops of ice cream and juice onto his tongue with a spoon.

How he didn't spontaneously explode and shower the restaurant with his innards and half-digested full-course-meal like the fat guy from the Monty Python Sketch is anyone's guess.

So, after paying for the bill (Iceland himself being the waiter), Denmark laid down an extra few _krónaas Iceland moved to take his looming pile of plates and cups away._

Iceland blinked his violet eyes a few times and stared at the extra money sitting on the receipt.

"Um…what's this?" he asked.

Now it was Denmark's turn to look puzzled.

"Uh…a tip. Y'know, extra cash for your trouble," he explained, not understanding.

Iceland's expression turned dark, and he glared at the worried Dane with utter contempt.

He then took his tray and smashed Denmark straight round the face with it.

As Denmark reeled in his chair, completely stunned, Iceland gave him another evil look before muttering "You sicken me," and storming off in a huff.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_Tourists visiting Iceland should know that tipping at a restaurant is considered an insult!_

**_._**

**_._**

**_._**

**Cultural Mind-fuck, Scene 2: More heresy, Russian style!**

It was around 1756, and England was on a political visit to Russia. I don't know exactly why, or why they'd chosen to have the meeting in some down-and-out abandoned shed in Siberia, but he was. Anyway, on the way England spotted a small and convenient store and quite fancied a spot of tea to warm himself up, the apparently- permanent winter in the vast country now really starting to bite. So, he broke away from his group without a word and ventured inside.

He hadn't even closed the door when a loud, booming cheerful voice chirruped:

"HI ENGLAND!"

England jumped back and seized his suitcase as if this could somehow protect him yelling "FUCKING SHIT!"

When no attack came, he lowered his rather frost-bitten shield and saw none other than Russia standing behind the counter, smiling cheerfully at him in a way that made most people run for the hills.

England sighed, somewhat relieved, and also more than a bit embarrassed. Trying to ignore the confused stares from the locals, he adjusted his collar for no apparent reason (as they do) and went to look for some tea. He gave the smiling Russia a polite, restrained nod as he went by, just to be safe.

He came back to the counter absolutely livid after no more than a minute or so.

The angry Brit glared at the large nation, not caring why he was there and not in the Kremlin as pre-organised or the fatal consequences that could arise if he provoked the Russian. His problem was far greater than a matter of life and death.

"YOU HAVE NO BLOODY TEA? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, MAN?" he shouted, slamming his fist on the counter to give his anger extra emphasis.

Russia just kept on smiling.

"England," he said, giggling. "This is Russia. No tea here."

England gave the other a withering look.

"GOD, I HAD NO IDEA!" he snarled sarcastically.

Suddenly a dark, searing aura burned around Russia, and his violet eyes flashed.

"You are going to buy something, da?" he rumbled, scaring the Brit half to death.

England laughed nervously.

"U-uh…sure…why not, while I'm here?" he stammered, grabbing for the nearest thing; a bottle of vodka, and shoving it onto the counter. "Ha…ha…"

Suddenly everything was bright again, and Russia was back to normal, beaming like a playful five-year-old.

"Yay! Lucky me!" he chirruped, scanning the item and popping it into a bag.

"Yeah…lucky…" England muttered darkly, out of Russia's earshot, taking the bag and placing a note in front of Russia.

Russia responded by handing over a pale brown block.

England took it, and stared at the weird thing, at a total loss at how to react.

"What…is this?"

Russia blinked, confused at the Brit's confusion.

"Money, silly."

"YOU GIVE ME A BROWN BLOCK AND CALL IT MONEY?" England shrieked, arms flailing wildly.

"Da," was the pleasant reply.

England was too stunned to respond. So Russia added:

"By the way, that 'brown block' is actually solidified tea."

"…Come again?"

"Tea. It's a block of tea."

England was out the door before the Russian had even got the last word out, sprinting down the road ignoring the Russian's cries of "Wait, you forgot your change!", hollering for his companions to wait up and get a fire going, they're gonna have some piping hot tea tonight!

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Until the nineteenth century, solid blocks of tea were used as money in Siberia!_

_._

_._

_._

**Cultural Mind-fuck, Scene 3: Lethal lavatories .**

England was walking down his corridor to the living room one morning and rubbing his sleepy eyes. Without any warning, as everything that occurred with a certain hero-crazed nutburger in his house, the door to the toilet burst open, and a limping, terrified America sprang out, turned and raced towards him at such speed the Brit's shocked senses couldn't react in time to get out of the way.

The result was a painful head-on collision of two men that every USxUK fangirl dreams of, except far more awkward and potential-fanfic-material-y.

They jerked, shoved and swore until England finally shoved the blubbering American off him and glared, leaning back and rubbing his sore arse (you know, hurt from when he hit the floor).

"WHAT IN THE BLAZES IS WRONG WITH YOU?" he roared, not giving two damns about the neighbours and the fact that it was seven in the morning.

"The toilet hurt me!" America wailed, rubbing his arm.

England rolled his eyes.

"Here, let me see that," he muttered, grabbing the other's arm and inspecting it. Sure enough, there was a large purple bruise forming under the skin.

"Blimey."

"I KNOW, RIGHT?" America whimpered. "THE THING'S TRYING TO KILL ME! IT'S A MONSTER! I KNEW IT HAD A GRUDGE AGAINST ME THE MOMENT I SAT ON IT'S FACE!"

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, TOILETS DON'T DO ANYTHING EXCEPT DIGEST YOUR SHIT, MUCH LESS HAVE HOMICIDAL TENDANCIES!" England shouted.

Unheeded, in the gloom of the bathroom, England's toilet giggled.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_40,000 Americans are injured by toilets each year._

**_._**

**_._**

**_._**

**Cultural Mind-Fuck, Scene 4: You Kinda Ate the Wrong Thing.**

Japan entered Poland's living room, clad in head-wrap, apron and all, and announced that dinner would be ready shortly.

Poland smiled smugly. God it was so nice to have slaves do all the hard work for you.

-Several minutes later.-

Sitting at Poland's table making small talk (mostly one-sided self-aggrandising nonsense on Poland's part, with Japan nodding and slipping in the odd 'I see' and 'That's nice' to indulge his proud host), the subject of what Japan had gone through to prepare the dish in the first place.

"Carefully sliced horse meat," Japan explained humbly. "I shot one on the way here."

Poland sniggered. Japan must've gone through the cranky old guy's farm. Serves the bastard right for calling his ponies gay abominations fit only for eating, digesting and pooping out.

"Like, awesome!"

A few more minutes went by, with Poland once again doing 99.9% of the talking.

"So," he said suddenly, "what did the horse look like?"

Japan stopped eating for a moment and looked to the ceiling as if the answer was written there.

"Hm. Brown with beige dots all over it."

"Huh, sounds like my Pony," Poland remarked, taking another mouthful.

"It was quite small for a horse, actually," Japan recalled, "I think it was a young one. I feel rather guilty now..."

"Aw, don't be, the thing was probably gonna get eaten by the crazy old guy anyway," Poland dismissed with a dainty wave of his hand.

"And for some reason it had a pink ribbon in its mane..."

Poland froze.

"Wait...a _pinkribbon...?"_

"Yes. A bright, horrible pink. Even its saddle was pink, and had the word "Po...land"...on...it..."

Japan fell silent, horrified. Poland was mute and white in the face.

"...Oh dear."

No-one heard from either Poland or Japan for quite some time after...

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE: _Raw horse meat is a popular food in Japan. They like it sliced up._**


End file.
